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His hooves power down, a clattering death knell to end the unicorn's life - but, as they make contact, they knock free the antlers from the creature's head. From the blood that exploded free, Tyradon assumes he has simply kicked the horns free from the unicorn's skull, but on closer inspection he can see that isn't the case - the horns were not infused into bone. No, they had been put there, items placed to adorn a hornless head. An equine head. "Shit," he exclaims, horror rising in him as the stallion says his last words and collapses into death. What the hell has he done?
He has slain one of his own - an equine. Someone superior. He couldn't have known that the man's antlers weren't truly part of him, that they had been given to him for whatever strange fetish he had about wearing horns. It didn't matter, now - he was dead, and the beast had made a terrible mistake. None of the glee that usually came to him after a kill flooded through him - he felt only shame, disgust that he had ended a perfectly adequate life. Of course, the stallion must have been addled in the head to want to wear antlers, yet that is besides the point. He was still good stock, equine stock, but now he lay prone at Tyradon's hooves. What a waste. Cynder chirps, feeling her bonded's disappointment and soaring down to the dead male to gently shut his staring eyes, before returning to the beast's shoulders. "May Nieque guide your spirit home," murmurs the black colossus, a prayer he saves soley for those of pure blood who die - it is an honour, a gift. With that, and with his shame still burning in his cheeks, the beast exits, leaving the body behind him to rot forever in this dank pit of sin. |
[ we are made of greed ]
[ the regime ]
